


Shrunkyclunks Hurt/Comfort Emergency Services

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Mission Fics [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Firefighter Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shrunkyclunks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: Even if he hadn’t recognized the voice, even if he hadn’t seen the look shot his way as he was loaded into the ambulance downtown amid smoke and sirens, he knows that post-emergency out-of-my-way tone like the back of his hand - he’d know it anywhere.“Hi babe!” he says as brightly, and therefore placatingly, as he can as Steve bursts through the door like a tricolor cannon ball.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Mission Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599379
Comments: 23
Kudos: 400





	Shrunkyclunks Hurt/Comfort Emergency Services

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for saddaughter, see end notes for more info**

Advantage James Buchanan Barnes - dating a supersoldier tends to mean that people part for said supersoldier like the red sea. Actually, it’s more hilarious than that because he’s usually a good head above everyone else, Thor aside, obviously, ‘cause Thor is like _huge,_ which means you can see him coming from miles away. And, another advantage to dating a supersoldier! People rarely have the guts (or stupidity) to tell Steve where he can and cannot go.

Which is why when Bucky hears,

“Yes, I know him, I’m his _husband!”_ very loudly through the doors of the ward they’ve got him on, he smiles. 

Even if he hadn’t recognized the voice, even if he hadn’t seen the look shot his way as he was loaded into the ambulance downtown amid smoke and sirens, he knows that post-emergency out-of-my-way tone like the back of his hand - he’d know it anywhere. 

“Hi babe!” he says as brightly, and therefore placatingly, as he can as Steve bursts through the door like a tricolor cannon ball.

It works - he goes from ready-to-rumble to deflated all at once.

“Oh,” Steve says, but then he looks sheepish and shuffles over with a nod to the attending medical staff. “Sorry. Uh,” and then he looks at Bucky. “How’s…?”

He gestures to all of Bucky, which he might well do considering, and Bucky tilts his head this way and that. He’s out of his jacket and his suspenders are down but the FDNY uniform’s pretty obvious whether he’s wearing his jacket and helmet or not, and he knows his name’ll be on the news by nightfall. The pity about it is it’s almost always because he’s Steve’s Husband, and hardly ever because the media are paying attention to him and his colleagues as a separate entity. There’s a whole thing online about it, how celebrity emergency services aren’t the only - or even the longest standing - emergency services. Still though, the Avengers back that particular campaign, and the media’s getting a _little_ better about mentioning the swathes of non-supers who attend disasters. 

Regardless, it’s a problem for another day. Right now, Bucky’s got a lot of bruises, a concussion, and he’s looking at some cracked ribs. Like, literally, the Doc’s put the film on the lightbox, those are his ribs he’s looking at, and three of them are cracked.

“Fuck,” he mutters - that’ll put him off work for a while for sure.

None broken, though, could be worse. 

Steve sits very still and behaves himself very well, a weird juxtaposition of ostentatious and subdued. He’s covered in concrete dust and blood in places, and he takes up like half the berth they’re in, big shield on his back, helmet swinging loose from one hand, the uniform screaming red, white and blue to anyone unfortunate enough to get in its eyeline. But he keeps his mouth shut, and his shoulders are hunched, and he takes the opportunity after one of the nurses draws blood for a test (fucking pathogens) to curl one arm around Bucky’s shoulders and press a dusty kiss to Bucky’s temple. He’s careful, of course he is, and he moves when the nurse comes back, but he doesn’t go far.

Bucky was all bravado before but there’s something liberating about having six feet of angry muscle at your back. It’s a presentation of safety in a manner few other things can emulate - guards on the door who say it’s safe to sleep, medics on standby who say nothing can go wrong, things like that are all well and good but can those guys parkour their way down from a six-storey building, or outrun a moving vehicle, or make every person in a five-mile radius follow orders without question to make sure you’re okay? Yeah, didn’t think so. Bucky’s security detail wins, thanks.

“I’m exhausted,” Bucky says before he thinks not to worry Steve, and Steve shakes his head slowly, loops one arm around Bucky’s waist while they listen to his lungs again, and moves himself closer somehow so he’s not putting pressure on Bucky’s ribs.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, and Bucky leans back into him without thinking. “You’re safe.”

And that’s the thing, really, about being wih Steve. 

He knows it’s true.

They were both out in it today, them and half the rest of the emergency services in the city of New York, and Bucky sometimes feels guilty he’s the only one who gets to come back to Steve’s suite in the tower. Makes a nice change that they’re here instead of Bucky’s though - usually the tower’s a target and repairs are required immediately so they have to haul themselves back down to DUMBO. And the thing is, Bucky doesn’t need to stay awake. Concussion doesn’t mean what it used to and, after a mild panic from Steve, the medical staff explained Bucky can sleep ‘cause he’s fine, but Bucky doesn’t _want_ to sleep. Bucky’s still a little wired on adrenaline - that unpleasant mid-ground between ready-to-pass-out and can’t-shut-his-eyes, but he knows if he curls up under a blanket and passes out now, he won’t sleep tonight. 

Plus, he’s…okay, he’s not sure he wants to leave Steve by himself to fret and wring hands and pace in the apartment while Bucky’s under. Besides which, Steve is one of the most tactile people Bucky’s ever met, and nothing soothes post-disaster nerves and whatnot like being held in arms like those. 

Steve helps him out of his protective pants at the hospital and leaves ‘em with Bucky’s Chief once they’ve confirmed none of the supervillain pathogens made it to Bucky (none of them made it anywhere, it turns out, but it only hurt his inner elbow a little to check). Steve helps him into a wheelchair to get to the car, helps him into the car to get back to the tower, helps him out of the elevator when they get up to his floor (yeah, Bucky twisted his ankle, too, it’s hobble or nothing,) and holds him easily when they pass through the front door. Bucky doesn’t doubt Steve’d carry him if he asked, is mildly concerned Steve might carry him regardless, but Steve helps him over to the couch instead, careful step by careful step.

“It’s alright honey, I got you,” he says, and the panic’s gone from his voice now, thank God, it was breaking Bucky’s heart to hear how scared he was.

Steve’s lost enough. 

~

Bucky’s not fragile, okay, Steve _knows_ , but Bucky’s a good man and he always gets himself into such trouble being good for other people. Steve’s also no stranger to irony but, right now, Bucky’s his main priority.

“You got hurt too,” Bucky says, easily, “I saw you.”

“Yeah but mine’s scrapes,” Steve says, gesturing for Bucky to turn sideways on the couch. “I took a knock and skinned a couple places, I was mostly healed by the time I showed up at the hospital.”

“Yeah the hospital. You came in like a wreckin’ ball,” Bucky tells him and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, never hit so hard in yada yada, quit the pop culture shit and put your feet up on the couch.” Bucky makes a face.“Aw, come on, honey, doc said feet up.”

“I like how Doctors’ Orders are only worth following when the orders ain’t for you,” Bucky says, but he starts to do as he’s told.

Steve helps, gets his hands under Bucky’s legs because Bucky’s ribs protest when he tries to pull them up, and then Steve leans down and presses a kiss to Bucky’s head, _carefully._

“Doctor’s orders don’t apply to me, I’m a medical marvel,” he answers.

“That’s one name for it,” Bucky says, but he smiles when Steve sets his hand on his shoulder, covers Steve’s hand with his own for a minute. 

“Hey, I love you,” Steve says, softly because Bucky’s gonna have a headache for a while, and because it’s true.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Love you too,” and his fingers are warm, his eyes are bright.

He did not die under falling masonry and, as much as Steve hates this, hates the thought of him in danger, this is something they both do. They both help people, they both step into danger to keep others safe, and perhaps it’s trite of him to be so proud of Bucky, maybe it’s arrogant to be so impressed by Bucky when he’s doing the same thing himself, but he can’t help it. He’s so proud, he’s so impressed, he loves Bucky so much.

“I’ll get you a coffee, baby,” he says softly and, when Bucky lets go of his hand, he lifts it and brushes the backs of his knuckles over Bucky’s cheek, follows the line of his cheekbone until he can tuck Bucky’s hair behind his ear.

There’s a bruise up his jaw like the one on Steve’s cheekbone. Bucky turns his head, eyes on Steve, and kisses Steve’s fingers.

“Go on,” he says, “I can feel you worryin’, and I want caffeine.”

Steve huffs a laugh through his nose but nods, turns away.

“You can have coffee,” he says, “you ain’t allowed caffeine.”

Bucky yawns, and Steve looks back at him with a smile.

“Can I watch TV?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t know,” Steve lies, “did your doctor say it was fine?”

“Oh my God,” Bucky mutters. “Date a supersoldier, they said. It’ll be great, they said.”

“If you behave yourself, I’ll blow you,” Steve sing-songs, and Bucky snorts.

“You can’t get me that easy,” he says, because they’ve both been here before. 

They’re not doing anything approximating sex for at least a few days, although Steve’s really good at tortuously slow handjobs so maybe it won’t be too long. 

“I’m gonna grab you a change of clothes,” Steve says as he starts the percolator. “Get you outta that fidney stuff.”

Which is how Steve pronounces FDNY, on purpose. Bucky says sometimes that he hates it, but he’s usually smiling when he does. It’s like that whole Yankees/Dodgers thing. More affection than aggression.

Steve gets a button-down and Bucky’s pajama pants, grabs one of his own cardigans because he’s got a few really big chunky ones that feel like portable blankets. He grabs bedsocks, too, ‘cause they’ll be softer on Bucky’s ankle than normal socks. 

When he comes back, Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“I mean,” he says, and Steve waves a hand.

“Shush,” he says. “You’re not spendin’ the next three days on the couch in your cargo pants, just hush up and let-”

“Three days!?” Bucky says, and Steve goes over and sits down on the edge of the couch.

“Hyperbole, sweetheart,” he says, and then he lifts Bucky’s good leg into his lap.

~

Bucky likes it, he’s not about to pretend he doesn’t - Steve’s got nice, thick, firm thighs, and he runs warm. Plus, he might fight for a living but he’s got artist’s hands, and they cup his heel as though they’re handling priceless vases or something. Bucky used to care when Steve took his socks off after an afternoon like the one they’ve had, but they’ve both made out with we-survived gusto while filthy and and sweaty and, really, when you’ve kissed the living daylights out of a guy who’s covered in garbage juice, dusty socks that were fresh on this morning hardly compare. 

First foot’s easy, second foot hurts, there’s no hiding it, but Steve supports it best he can (does a pretty damned good job of it, too) and then he stands up, leans over Bucky.

“Aright baby,” he says, a voice that raises goosebumps on Bucky’s skin. “I’m goin’ for those pants next, huh?”

Bucky chuckles.

“Sure,” he says, and he watches Steve’s face while Steve opens his fly, while Steve manipulates him to get the pants down over his ass. 

He takes Bucky’s underwear with them, too, and Bucky’s about to make a grab for them when he realizes Steve’s doing it on purpose.

“Animal,” he says. 

“Hey, you’re laid up, don’t mean I can’t enjoy the view.”

Shirt’s next, and that’s the big one, really, that’s gonna suck the most.

“You want me to cut you outta this, sweetheart?” Steve says, and part of Bucky does. 

Steve’d do it, too, no hesitation, but come on. It’s a waste of good clothes. That’s what tells him how worried Steve was, really - there’s no way he’d offer to cut a good shirt otherwise.

“Nah, I can manage,” he says. “You gotta help me though, it’ll take me a while.”

Steve nods.

“Sure,” he says, watching Bucky’s eyes while Bucky’s bare ass is on his couch. 

It does take him a while. It takes him _minutes,_ Bucky _hates_ how helpless injuries like this make him. Back injuries are just as bad, too - you never know how much of your body’s involved in moving until a ton of it hurts like a-

“Mother _fucker!”_

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Steve croons, but it’s not Steve’s fault.

“It’s not you,” Bucky sighs. “It’s not you.”

Once he can get his arms up enough, Steve can tug the shirt up at the back, draw it forward over Bucky’s head. That way he just needs to get his arms to shoulder height and hold still but that’s enough of a challenge itself. 

As soon as the shirt’s off his back, Steve’s holding his arm out under Bucky’s so he can rest them there, using Steve’s arms like a shelf.

“Oh,” Bucky says, “aw, how’d you know?”

Steve chuckles softly and waits. He knows ‘cause they’ve both done this before, but Bucky’s grateful for the reprieve before he’ll need to put his hands back down.

“If you can keep ‘em up a minute, Buck, I’ll get your other shirt on the same way. Okay?”

Bucky yawns again but nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”

So Steve moves his arm away and grabs for the button down. He turns it upside down and bunches it up in his hands so that he can get the sleeves over Bucky’s arms from the front and then just drape the rest of the fabric down his back, a full reversal of how he got Bucky’s work-tee off. At least this shirt’s loose - Bucky’s work-tee has to be near enough skin-tight so there’s no fabric to catch or snag - and Steve settles him back into the cushions and takes his arms again, supporting their weight so Bucky doesn’t have to.

“How’d it do if I lower ‘em for you?” he says, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table. “You just relax and I put ‘em down?”

Bucky tilts his head to one side and narrowly remembers not to shrug.

“Worth a shot,” he says, and lets his muscles go lax.

It works, too - Steve lowers his arms for him while Bucky just lets his limbs be limp, and it’s a hell of a relief to have them back down without having to have dealt with any of the rib pain trying to make his body move for himself. 

“Hmm,” Steve says, and he curls his hand on the inside of Bucky’s naked thigh. “I could get used to you like this. All laid out for me, barely dressed.”

“Unkind,” Bucky says. “No strenuous activity.”

Steve’s big, warm fingers move ever so slightly upward. 

“Doesn’t have to be strenuous,” he says, but they both know he’s kidding. 

He proves it a moment later, sweeps his palm over Bucky’s skin, thigh, other thigh (bypassing his cock, that’s not fair but also kinda necessary), stomach, and then away so that he doesn’t hurt Bucky’s ribs.

“Aright baby," Steve says softly. “Pants next, okay?”

“You didn’t bring me underwear,” Bucky tells him and Steve heaves a sigh and then turns his head and stares at Bucky’s dick where it’s nestled between his thighs.

“Oh no,” he says. “I might accidentally see your dick.”

Bucky groans a laugh and Steve picks up the other clothes and sets about helping Bucky into them.

~

Steve doesn’t button Bucky’s shirt. Bucky says he’s not cold enough to need it, or to need Steve’s cardigan, and that’s fine, at least it’s around for later. And Steve’s not about to complain that Bucky’s not covering up. 

Steve sits on the edge of the coffee table so he’s not jostling the couch, and he’s careful when he leans forward to kiss him that he’s not touching anywhere that might hurt. Bucky’s gorgeous, and selfless, and kind, and a million other things Steve loves about him, and Steve longs to touch him at the best of times, let alone when they’ve had a day like today. 

He sets his hand against the side of Bucky’s throat, thumb stroking his cheek as they kiss, and slides his palm down over Bucky’s chest to his pec (come on, he’s only human) and Bucky sighs softly into his mouth when Steve flexes his fingers just a little. 

They nearly lost each other today, neither of them’s under any illusion. Bucky was nearly crushed and Steve nearly got himself blown up. It’s a miracle they’re both as relatively unscathed, as they are but Steve’s reluctant to wander too far.

“I left my ring at the station,” Bucky says softly when they break for a moment, and Steve shakes his head, rests his forehead against Bucky’s.

“Love you,” he says quietly. “I love you.”

Bucky’s hand on his uninjured side comes up to press against the side of Steve’s torso, a grounding point of contact.

“I’m okay, baby,” he says, and the hand moves up into his hair. “I’m okay.”

And, rationally, Steve knows that. Bucky’s right here with bruises and minor injuries, in nice soft clothes on a nice big couch. Rationally Steve is well aware that Bucky is absolutely fine.

But Steve’s also barely five hours past seeing a burning building come down into a space he was one-hundred percent positive Bucky was still occupying, and knowing there were other priorities he had to see to first. 

That’s the crux of it - neither of them can spring to the others’ rescue at times like that. Steve thought he’d lost him and had to keep on going anyway. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything else for a few minutes, he just lets Steve sit with him, Steve’s so grateful for him. Steve’s _so_ grateful to have him here. Steve breathes for a little while. Bucky still smells of smoke and dust and sweat, but that’s true for both of them, and the warmth of Bucky’s skin comes through like a reassurance.

“Okay,” Steve says eventually, his voice rough from disuse, and he pulls back, clears his throat as he draws his hand back, too. “I get you anything?” 

“Hmm,” Bucky says. “Other than that coffee?”

“Ngoh, shit,” Steve mutters. “Right.”

And he heaves himself onto his feet to go get it, except that Bucky snags his hand.

“Don’t go if you don’t want,” Bucky says, and concern creases his brow. “It’s not like I can’t live without a coffee, Steve-”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, and he straightens up, closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m not tired, I’m just…” he sighs, looks at Bucky. _“Tired._ You know?”

Bucky nods - he does know. They both know. All their colleagues know, too. 

Steve lets go of Bucky’s hand and tries to ignore the way it seems to pull on a wire that attaches the middle of his chest to his fingers, crossing to the kitchen for that cup of decaf instead. 

He makes it with one sugar and half milk, the way Bucky likes it. Steve will take it as it comes, so most of the time he has it the same way as Bucky. You can’t mix up whose is whose if they’re both the same. 

“Can you get up here with me?” Bucky says when Steve crosses back with the mugs in-hand, and Steve nods.

“Course I can, sweetheart,” he says, putting the mugs down on the coffee table, “you okay if I move y’around?”

Bucky nods a little, slowly - he does still have that headache after all - and starts trying to sit forward.

“Nono,” Steve says, panic rising thick up his throat, “no, I’ll, don’t move, I’ll do it.”

Bucky snorts but he can snort all he wants. Steve can lift a taxi, Steve can hold down a chopper, Steve’s planted his feet against the goddamn F train before now - it’s not just _practical_ to stop Bucky hurting himself when he don’t have to, it’s _insanity not_ to do it for him.

Steve lifts him carefully, arranges Bucky in his arms so he’s not twisted or bent up, so there’s no pressure on unhappy places, and then he looks at him. Bucky’s smiling, eyes half closed and crinkled at the corners. 

“You’re too good to me,” he says, and Steve shakes his head.

“I’m nowhere near as good to you as you deserve,” he says, and then he starts trying to arrange himself on the couch, too, so that Bucky can be curled up with him. 

He manages it relatively easily - there’s no way he’d drop Bucky, Bucky’s easy to hold. Still, the last thing he wants is to jolt him or catch Bucky’s ankle on the edge of the couch, so it takes him a little while to be sure of where he’s sitting and how Bucky’s gonna end up but, really, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“This is it, huh?” Bucky says, and Steve looks down at him.

Bucky’s across his lap, because that way he can put a cushion under his leg - which Steve does for him - and have his ribs free of constraint, and rest his head against Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve puts another cushion in the hollow of his own shoulder first, for Bucky’s head, but then all he’s got to do is lean back and let Bucky’s body rest in the cradle of his own. With one arm around Bucky’s shoulders, he can use the other hand to brush Bucky’s hair back off his forehead. 

“How you doin’?” he says softly, and Bucky closes his eyes for a long few moments.

“Better for bein’ home,” he says, which eases some of the ache in Steve’s chest.

“Yeah, you an’ me both,” he says. “You catch a nap if you need, I’ll make dinner later. Whatever you want.”

“Elephant,” Bucky says without hesitation, and Steve huffs a laugh.

“Sure,” he answers. “I’ll make elephant. Come on, you sleep, we’ll eat dinner, and then we’ll clean up before bed, how ‘bout, huh? I’ll get you some painkillers, set some alarms-”

“I’m allowed to just sleep, Steve, you don’t need to check on me,” Bucky says, and Steve knows that’s true but it doesn’t stop him wanting to. “But if I go to sleep now-”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “honey, if you go to sleep now and I go to sleep now and we wake up at nine and we can’t get to sleep ‘til four, who cares? We’re benched for now, what’s it matter?”

Bucky wrinkles his nose but Steve can see that it hurts the bruises. 

“I don’t wanna sleep,” Bucky says, but he tries unsuccessfully to stifle another yawn even as he’s speaking, and Steve shakes his head.

This is how it happens, this is how it works. You get keyed up for a fight or a disaster and then you crash out the other side of it, and usually they manage a little post-work life-affirmation, but Bucky’s just going to have to settle for soft words and kisses. 

“We got time, Buck,” Steve says quietly. “We got plenty.”

He tucks his hand inside the open halves of Bucky’s shirt and he’s _careful._ He has to be careful, but he’d be careful even if he didn’t have to be, and Bucky breathes in deeply when Steve flattens his palm on Bucky’s skin. 

“Mmh,” he says, and Steve holds still a moment.

“I hurt you?”

“No,” Bucky says, lifts his hands, both of them, to Steve’s. “No, feels. It’s nice, can you-”

“Sure,” Steve says, spreads his fingers, and Bucky’s head goes back a little, his eyes slip closed. 

“Mhh,” he says, and nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Steve echoes, and he follows with gentle movements the lines and valleys of Bucky’s torso, fingers barely skimming bruises, avoiding scrapes. 

Steve loves to touch him, and Bucky loves to be touched - they were made for each other, Steve’s pretty sure. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Bucky, not now, and he runs his fingertips the length of Bucky’s collar bone and back, over his sternum, strokes his pecs and his stomach because they’re there and he can, and Bucky smiles dreamily up at him.

“If it didn’t hurt so much,” he says, “and freak you out, I’d say I ought’a get hurt more often.”

Steve just strokes the warmth into his skin with one hand and cradles him with the other arm, holds Bucky in his lap, to his chest, where he’s safe.

Bucky shuts his eyes and sleeps and Steve just watches him, just stares down at him and watches him breathe. He’ll make something nice for dinner, something Bucky likes. Meatballs, maybe, or mac’n’cheese, or stew maybe. Something filling and comforting. For now he stares down at Bucky and watches his chest rise and fall, mottled with scrapes and bruising, watches his brow smooth out though there’s still a little dried blood in his hair.

Bucky’s okay. 

That’s all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in getting me to write something for you, head on over to [my tumblr!](https://justanotherstonyfan.tumblr.com)


End file.
